


Unwanted Recollections

by abominableastronaut



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Introspection, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Nonbinary Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other, the exarch is there too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abominableastronaut/pseuds/abominableastronaut
Summary: In which Emet-Selch finds a glimmer of hope in the bottom of a teacup
Relationships: Azem/Emet-Selch (Final Fantasy XIV), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Unwanted Recollections

Though their star may lie fragmented, there exist universal truths, unchanged by the Sundering or any Calamity. The world turns. Water is wet. The sun does terrible things to his complexion.

Azem retains the ability to surprise him.

Ever since their first meeting, his tripping over words in front of the person whose concepts had sparked his own creativity, they’d had a knack for it. They had no care for his composure or their audience, would turn his world on its head with nary a thought. An infuriating ability to be sure, but as a young fool he’d been too enamoured to care for his pride.

A fool he may still be, but age brings a weariness with it that allows him far less indulgence of their whimsy.

He recognises them, of course. The shade is a pale imitation, no matter how many pieces of their soul reside within it, but they are still pieces of Azem, and thus impossible for him to ignore. Physically speaking, the scattering of starlight on their face is somehow still there, no doubt a feature Hythlodaeus would have teased them for carrying over. They still have a few inches over his chosen form. The colour of their soul hasn’t changed either, a soothing glow whenever he bothers to look in their direction. Rak’tika indicates their sense of humour didn’t undergo any improvements. _That_ whole affair was bothersome from start to finish, a fine way to discover he’d still do anything they asked, even without them putting words to a request. His still being so eager to please, to see a show of approval from them, burns embarrassment hot in his chest.

Rak’tika doesn’t surprise him, however. Embarrassment aside, he’s aware that his feelings remain unchanged. It’s something far more innocuous that undoes him. The banality of it could even be worse than the act itself.

He’s haunting the Crystarium, having accompanied the vaunted Warrior of Darkness unseen as they gathered a morning feast for their absent minded Exarch. While they dither over tea choices, he simply falls into step with them and doesn’t leave. They didn’t seem concerned by his presence, so he’d chosen to graciously ignore the other man’s sputtering whenever he joined them. As if, beyond travelling to this Shard, the Crystal Tower holds any secrets from the man who built Allag. The tower itself is of little concern for him, and tormenting its guardian is only a secondary benefit at best. _Who_ that man is still infuriates him, but such things can simmer quietly while he takes a moment for his indulgences.

He declines the offer of pastries, far more interested in observation. The two of them are unbearably twee. They speak in lowered voices across the table, as if it would take him more than a fraction of effort to overhear them. He tries not to think on how he'd once have been welcomed beside such souls as these. Instead, he closes his eyes and relaxes in his chair, letting himself pretend for a moment. If he tries hard enough, they almost feel whole. What he truly wants is not something he can find here, but desperation leads his mind to dwell on foolish dreams.

He’d be disgusted with himself if he weren’t so _tired_. Countless years spent building empires, orchestrating their downfalls, leading worlds to their inevitable end, and for what? To sit, maudlin and miserable, mere feet away from a shadow of his desires? The act of the pitiful lapdog is not one he's fond of, makes something savage inside him unfurl.

He runs a hand over his face and through his hair, fingers curling into claws and digging in. His nails are too blunt to draw blood, no matter the weakness of this form’s skin. Perhaps if he clutches hard enough he might bruise, bear the marks of his anger for his hosts to whisper about. If they even cared for his hurts.

The cruel thing inside him wants to rip and tear. To destroy that picture perfect scene not six feet away. To taste blood on his lips, make a well of it inside his mouth. To bare his teeth and bite down. Or, perhaps, to have steady, strong hands hold him back. To be held to both restrain and soothe, wrapped up in either pair of arms like the blood he'd spilled in the name of their salvation hadn't stained his soul irreparably. Seeing them whole, remembering what it was he had lost, why it was worth saving. Knowing without a doubt that he was seen, and loved regardless.

He remembers the less than warm welcome he’d received upon first investigating the mysterious keeper of the tower in Lakeland, and the warrior of light’s reaction upon their introduction in its exedra. The disdainful looks, the aura of command about them where others might panic in the presence of an Ascian. They don’t fear him. Perhaps, if their foolish endeavours succeed and he falls straight back into blind adoration, they needn’t.

It sets a warmth in the pit of his stomach, whether to soothe or engulf, he cannot tell. Either way, he’s more alive than he’d been for millennia. They’re so close to what they once were, even for all they are different.

Yet they wouldn’t understand if he pleaded his case, and giving this _hero_ the stone he’d secreted away since the Sundering would give them power against him he is unwilling to give up. His last piece in this game is not so easily played. If this shard turned their eyes on him as Azem would, he’d be hard pressed to deny them anything. Was already hard pressed, if sad looks were enough to go digging through the lifestream for one of their largely irrelevant companions. Better to keep it hidden, and be grateful for once that he’d only made the one memento in his grief. One temptation. Even breaking the rules as he had, Azem had been a member of the Convocation. Other friends were to remain lost until the Rejoining.

The battle between his sense and his loneliness is a familiar one, and there is no new ground to tread. Circular arguments and debate with himself only lead to frustration, to snapping at these pitiful Scions and fleeing to one or another sanctuary. He attempts to pull himself out of it, relaxing in his seat as if it were Solus’s throne on the Source. Pretend at disinterest for now and hope it becomes genuine. Leaving would be admitting to giving a damn, and emotional vulnerability has never been more repulsive.

_Ugh_ , he’s given himself a headache. He sighs loudly.

The sound of fine china set on wood brings him out of his agonies. The Warrior has rather thoughtfully passed a cup of tea his way, though whether they had asked him or he had agreed to it he doesn’t recall. He’d successfully distracted himself from reality, it seems. Perhaps they’d simply brought it upon themselves to brew it. If so, he’s interested to see what blend they thought to serve their enemy.

They pass the sugar back to him once they’ve added half a spoon to their own mug, followed by the honey pot. The tea itself is a steaming, spiced brew, the scent just familiar enough to spark a memory in him.

Azem, their very presence filling his apartment on cold mornings. Breakfast fruits and fancies, over-sweetened drinks, and the dawn sun streaming through the windows as they watched the city wake up together. Not quite the same, but a similar smell wafting from his steaming cup. Masks to one side for once, quiet contentment on their face as they spun one tale or another of their time apart.

The Warrior (don’t call them by name, not ever their name, _that_ _makes them real_ ) might not quite be Azem, but some things do not change for all they are sundered. A deeper pang of loneliness hits, and he wants to scream, _don’t you remember_ , _were we not once happy? Did we not live, content in the knowledge that we would have all the ages of eternity together?_ It’s tea, and only a facsimile of the tea he remembers at that, but this is what tips the scale.

_“You hold all that inside of you until it becomes too much,” they’d murmured to him, wrapped up together as they watched the first snowfall of the season. “If you wish to speak of it, I will listen. Or,” they placed a finger over his lips to silence his interjection, “We can take a little trip outside the city, see what our creations can_ really _do.”_

_“You would have a repeat of Ifrita for the sake of my temper? I’m surprised you would rather face the Speaker’s ire than have him face mine.”_

_They pull him closer, where their limbs end and his begin becoming difficult to discern in the mess they’ve made of the blankets. The fire blazing in the hearth heats his face, which is absolutely not just an excuse for the pinkness dusting it. “You prefer it when everyone gets along. I assumed you’d rather not snap at his next terrible idea.” They pout, and he has to kiss them._

_“One day you’ll tell me what he did to offend you.”_

_“Absolutely not. It’s embarrassing and you’ll tell Hythlodaeus, and then I’ll never hear the end of it.”_

_He bristles, “I would not.”_

_“Until he flashed you his pleading look, at which point you’d crack like an egg. Not that I’d blame you, a man his age should not have such power. Now, were we going to drink this tea_ before _it went cold?”_

If he cries into this cup, he might destroy this entire world out of blind spite. He upends the honey pot instead, pouring what’s left in it into his drink. The Warrior is obliviously sipping at their tea, not even the same blend they served him. Their drink is a deep purple that reeks of fruit, while their Exarch has some relaxing mix or other they’d spent far too much time selecting, in his opinion.

Did they pick this for him? Did they know somehow, or did they guess? Did he, in his need for someone to listen to him, reveal something that led them to this? Has he finally lost his mind, and needs something to obsess over?

He wants to take them by the shoulders and shake them, ask them what thought led them to this. He wants to crawl into their brain and never come out again. He wants that understanding he’d once believed to be his. He _wants_ to stop losing control of his emotions over Azem’s stupid leaf water.

Hades thinks of the Light collecting inside the shell of his dearest friend, of their promise to end the threat to the First, and for once doesn’t scoff to himself. Azem has always been one for surprising him, after all. There might be hope for their shard after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I have many thoughts on Emet-Selch, it seems. The man spends most of Shadowbringers going through it.
> 
> This also happens to be the other side of part five of [of that tongue's utterance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965027), in which my warrior of light is also going through it


End file.
